


Grief

by TheTraderJoesParkingLot



Category: Beetlejuice - Perfect/Brown & King
Genre: Also the Maitlands are my comfort characters, Am I projecting myself onto these characters?, Angst/Comfort, Fluff, Found Family, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, Oneshot, So much hurt/comfort, You bet your ass I am, leave me alone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:35:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28145454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheTraderJoesParkingLot/pseuds/TheTraderJoesParkingLot
Summary: Grief is funny.Sometimes you're grieving that your mom died.Sometimes you're grieving that you died.
Relationships: Lydia Deetz & Adam Maitland & Barbara Maitland
Comments: 6
Kudos: 22





	Grief

Grief is funny.

Not funny like “haha” funny, more like funny in the confusing—and sometimes interesting—ways in which it rears its multitude of ugly heads.

Grief is always there.

Sometimes, it’s a heaviness in your chest. It doesn’t make you sad. It doesn’t make you angry. It doesn’t make you feel any longing. It just sits there and makes everything feel slow and stuck, like all you can do is sit there and sigh and just _think_ about the crushing heaviness in your chest. You just sit there and look out the window and feel the heaviness and you keep sighing like you’ll breathe it out somehow but you _won’t._ So you’ll get up and do some homework or get a glass of water or do whatever godforsaken mundane task you have to do to keep yourself alive and running and you’ll learn to live with that heaviness because it isn’t going anywhere anytime soon.

Sometimes, grief makes you stupid. Like _dumb as shit_ stupid. You think that you’ll get a phone call from the morgue or from the cemetery and there’ll be a voice on the other end of the line saying “Your loved one just sat up and asked me where they were!” or “You’ll never guess who just dug their way out of their grave!” And this whole mess is just some sick joke or a huge misunderstanding and in no time you’ll be hugging your loved one and hearing them laugh again and holding their hand, never to let go.

Sometimes, it’s a lot like today.

You remember that breathing slowed to a stop, heart rates quieted into nonexistence, and all that’s left of life is this stupid, cold, stiff _carcass_ that’s jammed in a freezer, or shoved in an overpriced box in some dusty funeral home, or buried under six feet of cold, unforgiving dirt. It’s like a fucked up T-shirt: “I lived an entire lifetime of love and raw human emotion, and all I got was this stupid corpse.” Or, alternatively, the worst participation trophy ever. You can look at pictures, read birthday cards from years gone by, listen to saved voicemails, share stories, otherwise cling to the last remnants of a life that meant so much that disappeared insignificantly, and much too quickly, like a faint breeze on a muggy summer’s day. All you can do it rehash the old, knowing nothing new will ever come again.

This is where Lydia Deetz found herself today. The heaviness in her chest had swelled, slowly filling her entire body, until it poured out of her in the form of a trembling lower lip and burning tears and sharp inhales that threatened to echo through the walls of her busy home. Except her grief also usually came with guilt. Without Dead Mom, you know, _dying_ , she wouldn’t have Adam and Barbara, or Delia, or Beetlejuice. So, not only did she cry with sorrow, she cried with self-resentment, for she had momentarily valued one life over the lives—or afterlives—of people who loved her with such passion, such vigor, and such zeal. They gave her such an interesting daily life filled with so much love and adoration that she felt as though she should never be sad again. And yet she was.

So grief.

And guilt.

Forever hand in hand.

What a lucky girl she was.

Lydia blinked, and she somehow found herself trudging up the attic steps, her chest nearly bursting as she gave her lungs another reason to struggle for breath. As she stood in the doorway—Did she knock? When did the door open?—She froze. Adam and Barbara sat on the edge of the bed, Barbara’s hand daintily covering her mouth as she shook, her eyes screwed shut. Adam, equally shaking, pressed his forehead into his wife’s golden curls, his arms wrapped around her, pulling her close. Tears streaming down both of their faces. All Lydia could do was stand dumbly in the doorway, watching as the couple also lost their own battle against grief. And guilt? Possibly? Hopefully? Was there a slim chance that she wasn’t the only person in the house that felt like a selfish asshole for wanting her old life _and_ new life, and only the best parts?

Adam looked up, a look of subdued surprise on his face. Lydia startled, stumbling backwards, catching herself on the doorframe when her feet betrayed her.

“Lydia.” Adam stated matter-of-factly, as though he was remarking on the weather, and not acknowledging someone who had just intruded on a private moment between him and his wife. He loosened his grip on Barbara, who hadn’t so much as lifted her head in Lydia’s direction.

“I—I’m sorry—I—I didn’t—I don’t—” Lydia didn’t know what she was saying. Her tongue felt too large for her mouth, getting tangled up amongst her teeth, her throat achy from swallowing sobs for the past hour. Her brain felt like liquid, sloshing around in her head as her ears rang.

“Lydia.” He called again, bringing Lydia back into the attic. He was going to ask her what she was doing, or ask her to come back later, his voice all thick and sad. He’d get that look in his eyes that makes him look like a kicked puppy, unintentionally making Lydia feel like the kicker.

Instead, he scooted over, his hand still on Barbara’s back. When he spoke, his voice shook, his words getting caught on his tears.

“Come here.”

Suddenly, that was all that she needed.

Lydia rushed over, collapsing onto the bed. Barbara blindly reached an arm around the girl, pulling her in close. Their bodies intertwined, each nestling their head into the other’s shoulder. Barbara’s sobs racked through her body, causing her to lurch and heave. Lydia, really having no other choice, followed suit, choking out cries into Barbara’s hair. Adam reached around them, allowing his harsh inhales to join their anguish as he wept, holding his girls.

Grief is funny.

Lydia was grieving that she had to keep living, and Adam and Barbara were grieving that they stopped, all feeling guilty that they wished they could go back to before everything had changed, before the faint breeze blew on a muggy summer’s day, yet still wanting to hold onto each other, selfishly keeping only the best parts. Luckily (and unluckily) for them, no amount of crying could change what had happened, or turn back time, or allow Emily and the Deetzes and the Maitlands to live—really live—under the same roof.

What crying could do, though, was allow everyone to have a conversation when speaking became physically impossible. On this bed, right now, they could discuss how they all felt the same feelings over different yet similar things, making no sounds other than strained sniffs and whimpers. And as Lydia squeezed out more tears, as Barbara rocked her back and forth, continuing to sob, and Adam rubbed both of their backs at the same time (which Lydia felt took a considerable amount of talent) as he huffed through the unbearable sorrow they all felt, they all said more to each other than they ever could with words.

Eventually, Lydia’s breathing would relax and steady, Barbara’s rocking would slow to a stop, and Adam’s sounds would quiet into nonexistence. Eventually, they would all lift their heads, and be met with each other’s red, puffy, blotchy faces, laughing lightly at the ridiculousness of their joint cry session. They would sit, continuing to hold each other, shaking out the last bits of their heartache. Then, Barbara would stand, extending her arms out to her motley crew, Lydia and Adam each taking a hand as she hoisted them up. Looking at each other one last time, they would make their way downstairs to get a glass of water, and maybe Lydia would do some homework. The heaviness in their chests would settle, not going anywhere anytime soon. And inevitably, when the heaviness would swell and slowly fill their bodies, with trembling lower lips and burning tears and sharp inhales that threatened to echo through the walls of their busy home, they knew where to turn.

Because grief is always there.

But so are they.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all,
> 
> I suffered a pretty huge loss in my family a few days ago. It was my great aunt, who was basically another parent to me. She helped raise me and we had a really special bond, beyond any bond she had with anyone else. And aside from my mom, she was the person I loved most on this Earth. She was 90, and sick, and declining, and it was very much her time, but it still doesn't make my heart break any less. In the words of Lydia, she was my whole world. 
> 
> I always wanted to tackle not just Lydia's grief, but the Maitland's grief. With Lydia, although she gets a whole lotta closure at the end of the musical, her grief will never go away. And Adam and Barbara never got ANY time to grieve their deaths. I was thinking about maybe putting this in my current fic (if you haven't read it yet please go check it out it means the world), but it didn't really fit, and I feel like this is better as a stand alone thing anyway.
> 
> So here I am, projecting myself onto my comfort characters. Also sorry I couldn't think of a snazzy title, on account of being sad and all that jazz. And I kinda wrote this all in one sitting, and while I think the run-on sentences add to the emotion I'm trying to convey, sorry if it's actually a dumpster fire. 
> 
> So thanks for reading! And if I can share wisdom from my great aunt, it's this:  
> Never forget to tell those around you that you love them. Say it loud, say it proud, say it often. 
> 
> Because I know sure as hell that she did.


End file.
